


We'll Take What We Can Carry, and We'll Leave the Rest

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Fried Green Tomatoes (1991)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idgie looks at Ruth and says, "You ain't never gonna let this beat you, you hear me?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Take What We Can Carry, and We'll Leave the Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Victoria for the beta. This wouldn't be half the story it is without her.
> 
> Written for ceridwyn2

 

 

They catch the cancer early--Idgie pushes and pushes, _It ain't right not to be eating._ And _Shit, woman, you lose any more weight ain't a thing in the world gonna hold you down if the wind blows hard enough._ Ruth finally caves, goes to the doctor, comes home with a curve to her mouth that ain't got a thing on her usual smile. Idgie crawls into bed with her, though it ain't gone much past four. She fits herself over Ruth, touching her everywhere she can, kisses her like she can pull the sickness from her. She slides her fingers inside her, until Ruth comes apart, shaking and trembling, Idgie's whole world wrapped in the tiny gasping breaths she takes, the way her fingers curl in Idgie's hair and pet.

It's still summer, heat clinging to Idgie's skin until she can't breathe, and Sipsey says _cancer_ , hushed and low, the way Idgie's mama used to, the way her first grade teacher used to talk about young women who dressed too fancy and laughed too loud. It sets something cold and terrified loose in Idgie's chest, like to remind her of the sound of a train a lifetime ago in the distance while she watched, helpless and overwhelmed.

Idgie looks at Ruth and says, "You ain't never gonna let this beat you, you hear me?" There's a challenge in her eyes, and Ruth reflects it right back at her when she laughs, slips her fingers through Idgie's, palm fitted to palm. Idgie imagines she can feel the way Ruth's blood moves just beneath her skin.

"Don't think I mind you saying never to me, just this once." This time, when Idgie thinks of trains, it's of jumping from them, of Ruth catching her again and again and again, and she squeezes Ruth's hand a little tighter.

The days are long, full of hospitals, the smell of sickness and the taste of death. Idgie hates it all; she clings to the hospital like it's hope, instead of the prison she used to think it was, and she hates that more than anything.

There's surgery to come and radiation to follow, and the doctors offer promises of success with doubt in their eyes. Idgie gets down on her knees and prays the whole time Ruth's being operated on, like Ruth would've, and ain't never been a time those words didn't feel like a lie on her tongue, but now they're the only truth she has, _please God_ , and _best thing I have._ She never tells Ruth, but Ruth knows anyway, always has, some unnatural way of always seeing right through Idgie to what counts.

"If I'da known all it took was me getting sick to bring you to Jesus, I'd have set about doing it a long time ago." Her voice is faint, rasping like she's been out all night, drinking and smoking and screaming, the way Idgie wants to do.

"You're so full of shit," Idgie says. She curves a hand over Ruth's cheek, bones too prominent under her hand, more so than they were even a month ago, still the most familiar thing she knows. "And besides, I'd get down on my knees and do a lot more to anyone could help you. Don't make him special."

It's worth it to see Ruth smile and pretend like she isn't, her eyes lighting up like maybe the ground ain't so far away as she'd thought.

When Buddy comes in a little later, Ruth's tired and sore, groggy and a little out of it, but she's still wearing that look, says, "Your Idgie's heading straight to hell, honey. I ain't so sure we should be associating with her anymore."

Buddy laughs. "You've been saying that for years, mama."

"Ain't that the truth." Buddy settles down by her bed, and maybe Ruth breathes a little easier. "Maybe she could tell us a story. Some kinda penance for her misdeeds."

"Maybe I could," Idgie says.

Buddy rests his head against her shoulder, holds Ruth's hand with his, and Idgie says, "There used to be a lake when I was growing up. Biggest damn lake you ever saw. I used to play in it for hours, swam in the summer, skated on it in the winter. Buddy would've loved it." Buddy glances up at her from under his lashes, and Idgie lays a hand on his head. "Course, your mama would've fallen on her ass in the first ten seconds, or gone under, and I'da had to bail her out. But anyway, it's a mighty big lake. And one day, these three ducks fly over and land right in the middle of it."

"Did them ducks have names?" Ruth asks, her words weighed down with sleep, a question she's never asked before.

"Sure they did. What kind of ducks don't have names? Thomas, William and Jessie Lee. So anyway, Thomas, William and Jessie Lee are sitting there, drinking and probably talking, doing whatever it is ducks do, and all of a sudden, the whole lake freezes over. Just like that, nothing but a huge block of ice. And maybe other ducks woulda gone and died, you know? But these ducks just flew away. Took the whole goddamn lake with 'em." Ruth's falling asleep, her hand gone loose around Buddy's, and Idgie strokes her fingers through Ruth's hair, Buddy's head a warm weight on her shoulder. "I heard tell they were in Georgia, but I ain't never seen it. I think maybe we should. We'll go find us a lake, and I'll introduce you to Thomas, William and Jessie Lee. I don't imagine they'll like you much, but ain't no harm in trying."

Buddy says, "Can I come?"

Idgie knocks him on the back of the head for being so stupid. "Wouldn't dream of leaving you behind."

This is what they do through the radiation, too. Idgie tells Ruth stories, and they wait. Sometimes Buddy's there, and sometimes he's not, staying over at everyone's house at least once--it's like the whole town decided to help, and not just 'cause they all love Ruth almost as much as she deserves, but because Buddy's a sweet kid, got Ruth's nature, all her better sense.

"Learned your charm, more like," Ruth says, when Idgie tells her so. Idgie laughs, because Ruth sounds stronger, even if the docs still look nervous, talk about side effects and infection, a whole host of words Idgie would just as soon not think about.

"I'm gonna join a band," Idgie says, because Buddy's not there, and she saves all her improper stories for then, always, always working for Ruth's smile. "Got a fine singing voice, and I'm gonna drive all the men wild."

Ruth tugs just enough to bring Idgie to her, kisses her, warm and soft, and Idgie almost doesn't say, _but I'll always come home to you_ , but she murmurs it against Ruth's mouth, because Ruth should hear everything.

A week later, when Ruth's emptied out and worn down, Idgie rubs her back, over and over, because there's nothing else she can do. "And you should publish a book-- _Recipes from the Whistle Stop Café_ , or something like." Ruth snorts, all unladylike, and Idgie pretends not to hear it. "Seriously, we won't give out all the secrets, but some of 'em wouldn't hurt."

Sometimes, she lets the truth in, says, "You remember that summer? The first one?" Idgie can still taste it so many years later, freedom and Ruth tangled up together. It had been sweeter on her tongue than Ruth's perfume in her nostrils, lingering long after Idgie's heart had lodged in her throat and she hadn't asked Ruth to stay. "You saved me. Saved me every single day since."

Ruth says, "You don't have to tell me," and Idgie mouths tiny kisses along her neck, doesn't ever want to stop doing that.

"Wouldn't tell you if I thought I did," she says in between kisses, until Ruth pulls her head up and cups Idgie's chin in her hand.

All the humor's gone from her face, and Idgie wants to look away. "You're gonna make sure Buddy graduates."

Idgie shakes her head. "No, ain't no way. Doc says you're doing better, and you're gonna have to stay around, because if you leave his schooling in my hands, your boy's in real trouble."

"That's a damn lie. Ain't nobody's hands I'd rather leave him in."

But it's not a lie that she's doing better. It's all baby steps and one day at a time, but it still feels like a miracle when she eats food and keeps it down, when her hands grip Idgie's wrists and don't tremble.

***

When Ruth comes home from her last visit to the doctor's, there's a smile like Idgie's never seen on her face before. There's a party, Sipsey and Big George and Grady, Reverend Sproggins and Buddy's teachers, people Idgie only vaguely knows, all of 'em decked out to see Ruth, and all looking about as happy as Idgie feels. It's like the party for Ruth's birthday all those years ago, that same feeling of promise bursting open in Idgie's chest, only Ruth doesn't drink this time. She laughs enough, though, that it don't hardly make a bit of difference.

Idgie puts her hands on her waist, not even caring who sees. "You wanna," she says, leaning in, even though it's not gone half past three.

"I most certainly do not." Ruth looks like the primmest Sunday school teacher Idgie's ever seen, except for the way her breath catches with want, and her fingers slide under Idgie's shirt. "You got things to be doing and guests to entertain." She grins. "But we got plenty of time."

That night, while Ruth works her open, finds every place in Idgie that's sensitive and wanting, Idgie keeps talking. It's a game they always play, the only time she can't keep her mouth shut, when Ruth's lighting her up like a Fourth of July display. Ruth swears one day she's gonna bring her to silence, but right now, Idgie's voice is shot to pieces, so full of need and joy she doesn't even recognize it. It sounds like someone better, someone the world was made for.

"We gonna go to Georgia?" It feels like Idgie's been handed the future, faith and hope and a lifetime of promises she never deserved.

"We could do that." Ruth kisses down her spine, dances her fingers over her body, presses miracles into her skin and over her heart. "And it's crazy as all get out, but I kinda like your book idea. Maybe it'd work, pay Buddy through college."

"Damn right," Idgie says. "He's fixing to be a doctor, you know."

Ruth laughs. "Yeah, I heard."

***

It ain't like Idgie just lets Ruth start working right away; there's time needed to heal, and Idgie's gonna make sure she gets it. But it's not like Ruth to take orders, either, and in the evenings, she copies out recipes, that flowing writing Idgie's always loved spreading out across the page.

"You're gonna draw me a picture, right?" Ruth says, pen between her teeth, just the way she always yells at Buddy for. "Make it presentable."

"I do not believe I will be doing so, Miss Ruth," Idgie says, but she starts drawing the café, puts effort into it like she used to, when Buddy said he was gonna need something to look at in college.

It ain't easy, but her mama always said nothing worth doing ever was, and Idgie figures if Ruth had given up on her 'cause she was difficult, she'd be pretty damn screwed right about now.

"It ain't fair for you to be so talented," Ruth says, when she finds her working on it down by the river at night, paint on her fingers and maybe on her face, and she kisses the denial right out of Idgie's mouth. "I'm gonna send this away. Gonna make us a fortune."

"Liar. You're gonna make a fortune and give it away to the first needy cause that catches your eye."

"Only thing catching my eye right now is you, pretty girl."

"You say all the sweetest things to me." And Ruth runs through her like the river, familiar and sweet and forever.

They send the book away, and it ain't half so hard as Ruth kept saying it would be to get it published; the café's made a name for itself, and Ruth's a damn good cook.

It don't make them a fortune, but it brings a sight more money in than they're used to, a sight more people to the cafe, which wasn't exactly slow before. They hire some kid called Jackson, yet another project from the church, and he spends his whole first day looking at Idgie like she might eat him if he steps out of line.

"'M'only gonna hurt you if you piss me off," she says, and Jackson smiles a little, eats the bacon she puts down in front of him. "If you can not do that, and maybe play a little poker, we'll get along just fine."

Jackson does, admits it with a shy smile and a lowered head, like God himself might be listening and strike him down right there in among the pans and gleaming dishes Idgie's just set out on the counter.

"You should come play some evening," Idgie says. Ruth pretends to disapprove, but she invites Jackson over for Easter dinner, and all four of them play baseball in the yard while the dinner burns.

He comes round every Sunday after that, and when dinner's done, Ruth shoos Idgie out to play cards with the boys, has been nagging at her to do it since April rolled around and Ruth started getting her color back. It makes Idgie laugh. She's reluctant at first, but she takes the cards in her hands, spreads them out like chances in her fingers, and it's like she ain't never been away.

"See," she says, when she gets back, pile of crumpled notes stuffed in her pockets, "you ain't the only one bringing in the money in this family."

Ruth touches her hair, says, "About that."

"Well, shoot. You've given it all away, haven't you?"

"I was just thinking--"

Idgie moves in, slides her hand against Ruth's jaw, brown and rough looking against the pale skin. "I know. I was thinking about..." She swallows, waits until she's got her words right. "I was thinking about how you got out, away from Frank, and how I'd never have left you there, and how ain't everyone has that, and maybe we could set up--something. I don't know." She looks away and then back again, 'cause Ruth never made fun of her, not when it counted. "I'm not saying as how it would be easy. I know how people hereabouts think, but maybe--"

Ruth draws her in, and Idgie thinks she's going to kiss her, but Ruth just wraps her arms around her, drops her head on Idgie's shoulder. "You're never done surprising me, Idgie Threadgood," she says.

"Not if I have a say in it."

***

In the summer, they go to Georgia, and Idgie lets Buddy sit on her lap as she drives, and she explains about the stick shift and holding the wheel right, even though Ruth's forever telling her how she does it wrong. They go to every lake they can, swim in 'em in the summer heat, and Idgie rejects every one as not good enough.

"That lake ain't half big enough," she says again, the day before they leave, and Buddy shakes his head.

"That was the last one. There's no lake here."

"Nope," Idgie says. "Guess they must've gone somewhere else."

"We gonna go look for it?" Buddy's got a smear of chocolate on his face, and Ruth wipes it away, smiling as she says, "Sure we are."

Every summer after that, they go somewhere new, not staying put like before. In between times, Buddy does well at school, takes the occasional beating for letting his mouth run on when he should know better, but mostly, he gets good grades, and Ruth gets this happy, soft look in her eyes when she sees the rows of As and Bs he brings home.

She and Idgie fight--over everything and nothing, the women's shelter and whether the community can go to hell if they don't agree, all slamming doors and words Ruth sure as hell didn't learn in church. They kiss, their bodies tumbling together, always laughter between them, and sometimes people whisper, but they love Ruth too well to do more than that.

They play endless games of poker, make truckloads of coffee, soak up the sun and play like kids in the snow. The years pile up, higher and higher until Idgie's the one dizzy when she looks down, giddy with too much luck she can't be sure how she got.

They see Texas and Kentucky; Ruth tries to get Idgie to dance to some band in New Orleans, and Idgie refuses, because she's glad every goddamn day that Ruth's still here, but everyone's got their limits. She chases Ruth into the water in Tennessee, watches as Buddy--older and taller and more like his mama by the day--buries her in sand in Dakota. In Chicago, Idgie's wide-eyed and uncomfortable, a city too full and not alive at all, but Ruth blends in easy, elegance and grace, southern charm where Idgie is all backwards tomboy, even now.

"You could've been anything," Idgie tells her, as they drive away, Buddy curled up almost small in the backseat.

Ruth doesn't speak for a while, slides her hand onto Idgie's knee and flattens her fingers there. "I got everything," she says.

Idgie drives home, Ruth's hand still on her knee, Buddy's quiet snuffling filling the car, and she knows this is the life she'd choose as long as the choice was hers to make.

But it isn't, never has been, not in the real world, where cancer don't leave room for choices or love, or for a future Idgie spent a lifetime weaving but couldn't make strong enough. She lies in her bed, a million miles away from New York, sleep that far out of reach, too, and she imagines she can feel the car under her. She wants to hear the engine louder than her own heartbeat, but that, at least, has always been impossibly strong, no matter how many times she wishes it weren't.

Buddy comes to her, stops the circling of her own thoughts, wishes of things she'd done better, words she hadn't said and should have.

"Can't sleep?" she says, which is stupid, because if he could, that's what he'd be doing now. Buddy just shakes his head. Idgie slides over, and he climbs up, the way he used to when he was really little.

"Tell me a story?"

Idgie wants to lay it out for him, the story of the life that should've been theirs, a trail of words she wraps around herself in the dark. She ain't stupid enough to think it'll heal anything in him, can't give him a shining path of nothing to follow, not when he's got a life ahead of him to grow and look forward and be.

"Okay," she says. "You know the story about the oysters, and the one about the puppy." He nods, and she draws him in to her side, throws an arm around him. "Well, when God made the squirrel, it was spring, and the squirrel was always happy. Ran around all through summer, getting big and strong, feeding off all the nuts it could find. Only being as how it was just a baby, it didn't know that when winter came, there weren't gonna be so many nuts to find, and it got cold and hungry. God, who, to my mind, should've pointed this out in the first place--but that's not the point--he comes around and gives him a new supply of nuts. And he tells him that for every year after, he's gotta just store 'em up, hibernate there in the winter."

She pauses, her fingers soft on Buddy's shoulder. "Ain't a person on this planet didn't love your mama," she says, almost adds _decent_ person, but Frank Bennett is long gone, his memory a distant thing. "Ain't nobody she didn't touch back in some way. This whole town's full of her, and there weren't no one she loved more than you. You gotta hang on to that, be like the squirrel, darlin', and store it up when things get hard."

Buddy presses his head into her neck, his face damp, and Idgie smells the fresh cleanness of his hair when she turns her head, still that baby smell underneath it. "Ain't fair."

Ruth would have something good to say, something about the pain making them stronger, or how fair was something you worked for, not something you got. Idgie don't have anything. "Nope," she says. "Mostly, life ain't." Buddy sniffs, all wet and snotty, and Idgie holds him tighter. "Sometimes, though--you wanna hear about the day your mama became my best friend?"

Buddy nods.

"Okay. I was a little wild back then, and my mama had this crazy notion that your mama was gonna tame me. And this one time, we sneak on this train, and I tell her we gotta jump off..."

Idgie talks until Buddy drifts to sleep in her arms, tear tracks still on his face. She falls asleep still holding him, lets the past and the possibility of what might've been lull her, Ruth's voice in her head the comfort it always was.

***

 


End file.
